


Heaven

by heartachesbythenumber



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, I don't condone any of this, Mild Gore, Mind Manipulation, Oral Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Religious Conflict, Self-Indulgent as All Fuck, gee bill how come your mom lets you have two hunters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 01:48:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20922164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartachesbythenumber/pseuds/heartachesbythenumber
Summary: The nightmare can make you do strange things.





	Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> i'm so sorry

It was hours before he found her.

The thing had stuffed Charlotte into a sack as easily as a doll before leaping towards the cathedral. Simon had been lucky enough to catch sight of it at the top of the stairs, just barely glimpsing the shadow as it darted eastwards from the building itself. He chased it down the path, losing sight of it but noticing as the other beasts were disturbed from their usual posts, swiping and snapping at Simon as he raced by.

Simon only stopped once as he came upon a great gate, one that had been locked the last time they’d been by and now stood wide open. But he couldn’t be slowed now. Couldn’t be sure of how Charlotte would fare on her own. Prayed that he wouldn’t have to find out.

The winding streets were strangely empty save for a handful of shambling corpses with weapons they were too clumsy to use. Simon made quick work of those in his way and ignored everything else. He ignored the towering buildings closing in around him and the voices on the wind, never the one he was seeking. He saw nothing else.

Simon found her collapsed in the middle of the street, a trail of relatively fresh corpses painting the path towards her. When he called her name, she did not move, and as he closed in, the air around him stiffened and froze in his throat.

A corpse kneeled on the ground before her, bright yellow flames licking up its body, chest raised to the sky as if pulled on a string. Its skin was charred and crisp, seemingly having nothing left for the flames. Still, they burned. A shimmering, white pool spread on the ground around it. Charlotte was kneeling before it, her hands resting uselessly in her lap as she stared up at the corpse, supplicating herself.

“Charlotte, what…” Simon’s voice was harsh, the sharp tang of phosphorus burning on his tongue. He lowered himself next to her. His head felt uncomfortably light, empty, his mouth wordless.

She was frozen in a mask of pure fear, her eyes wide open and tears streaming down her cheeks. Simon watched as her lip quivered, the only sign of life left. When he placed a hand on her back, still unable to speak, it was like a rope had been loosened. Charlotte slumped back, her full weight suddenly braced by his arm as he narrowly caught her. As her head turned to face him, her eyes stayed open and her mouth gasped for air, trying to form words even as no sound escaped.

“Charlotte,” he tried, one hand reaching to wipe at her cheeks. There was something so horribly wrong with her, something that reached down into Simon’s gut and _squeezed_, threatening to spill what remained of his stomach onto the ground. The air was heavy, and he felt it caressing his skin in tendrils, felt it worming its way down his throat and—

They needed to leave.

Only as he reached down to lift her did he see how her hands and knees had been resting in the sick pool. It fed on her in blood and blisters, eating away at her skin.

“Stand up.” The command shook in Simon’s throat. He gripped Charlotte by her underarms, hoisting her up while urging her quietly to come, stand, _wake up_. The water came back viscous, sticking to her skin in webs as she was lifted to her feet. Her knees shook, refusing the bear her weight. Simon chastised her under his breath automatically, but he knew it was no good.

No, not here. He couldn’t treat her here.

Simon all but dragged her to the nearest house, breathing a shaky prayer. The door swung open with a push as though it had never known a lock. Charlotte was pressed to his chest, one arm slung round his shoulders while the other hand tangled in his coat. As Simon shouldered the door, he realized she was finally _speaking_, urgently and under her breath, babbling.

He brought her to the home’s modest kitchen and, with one sweep, cleared the countertops. Moldy bottles and plates fell to the floor, shattering but Simon hardly heard it. The heavy air pervaded the home, too, an invasion pushing into his lungs. He tried to breathe evenly as he hoisted Charlotte onto the counter. Bloody knees dangled in front of him as she let out a low groan, before falling back to her feverish whispers.

Simon examined her wounds. Whatever that substance was, it was caustic enough to leave her skin a pool of blood and flakes, small islands and sores in a sea of red. The wounds ran beneath the wrecked fabric of her trousers, which were positively soaked from the thighs down.

Brandishing a small knife, he said, “I have to get a better look at the wound, is that all right?” He didn’t know whether he caught a nod in his periphery or a convulsion, but he couldn’t bear to look at her as he began to cut into the fabric. Pieces fluttered to the floor like butterfly wings, and Simon kept his gaze down once she was bared before him.

He bent slightly to retrieve a flask from his pouch and the room shifted around him. His hands reached out to steady himself, one landing on the counter and the other on Charlotte’s leg. When she whimpered, Simon refused to acknowledge the strange image flashing in his head, her limbs splayed unnaturally, as if broken. Instead, he pulled the flask out quickly and began to douse the chemical burns.

Her hands, thankfully, were mostly protected, having rested in her lap; the knuckles alone seemed to have dipped in the strange solution. The knees were much worse. He dabbed at the remaining blood with a cloth, and Charlotte hisses, dazedly pulling her knees to her chest.

“Stay _still_.” He only just manages to speak, his teeth clenched tight in his head. It’s like his limbs have fallen asleep, a tingling spreading up in his body and dancing across his shoulder blades. A low keen was coming from Charlotte’s throat, and it is then Simon noticed how her glassy eyes were fixed on his. A feverish blush dusted her cheeks, and her tears were starting to dry as if from the warmth of her face alone.

He averted his eyes.

Gently, he drew her legs back down and apart by the ankles. His eyes clung to the red of her knees, so afraid to look anywhere else, so afraid of being watched. He braced her leg with one hand as he set back to work on the other, clearing away the blood and loose tissue, and how Charlotte _moaned_, as if he was torturing her. Simon frowned, gripping tighter, and she stilled under the bruising hold.

He made slow work of the second knee. The heat of the room was growing nearly unbearable, his hands shaking out and slipping from his control. There wasn’t a whole lot he could do without his supplies in full, but Simon believed he’d gotten it as clean as he could when he stepped back to admire his work.

Charlotte was leaning back against the wall now, her legs spread before him, and finally Simon saw the wetness of her underthings.

The images come like thunder this time, crashing through his mind and wracking his body, something snapping in his core. He pulls his eyes upwards only to catch hers still boring into his, her mouth open as she pants. Her eyebrows are drawn together as though confused—or mourning for something _more_—and Simon finds he cannot look away. A tether keeps him there, frozen for a moment as he watches the moonlight sift in through the window and catch in her eyes, leaving small, bright flecks in the grey irises. She whispers something and her breath catches. Simon feels something soft beneath his hands, belatedly realizing that he is gripping her thighs, and this time he _sees_ it, the slight nod of her head, beckoning him in.

He knows it’s wrong on some level, he’s sure. But now he can see all the little signs around her body—the new colour in her flesh, the way her mussed hair rounds her head like a bright halo. In this moment, he feels his body being pulled towards hers as he places a hand on the base of her skull and lifts her lips into his.

She is sweeter than anything he’s ever tasted, something wholly new on his tongue. The soft gasp she makes against his mouth tugs at the unbearable heat of his body. _This is right_, he tells himself as he reaches towards her glory, cupping the spreading wetness, _this is human. This will bring her back to me_.

She animates the slightest bit, her legs moving towards his hips, cupping him as her fingers curl into fists beside her.

_My lord_, he thinks, lips mouthing the brayer into her mouth, _what a gift you’ve given me._

He kneads his hands against her undergarments, anxious, suddenly knowing why this happened, finally seeing a purpose in this long, awful night. He breaks the kiss abruptly, Charlotte’s face dipping forward as if she’d been leaning on him, and he begins to undress her below the waist. She no longer looks at him, her eyes fixed on the ground, but Simon sees how the blush has spread further, a silent plea for his relief. His stomach turns delightedly as he sees his prize, which is already leaking onto the soiled countertop, and he cannot quell the urge to touch, to _taste_. Simon leans her body back against the wall, her head lolling to the side as he lowers himself between her legs, glass crunching beneath him.

He hovers a moment, breathing in her scent and enjoying the weight of her thighs on either side of his head. Then he presses his tongue flat against her, running it up slowly. The taste is indescribable, sweeter than a peach and tingling on his tongue, and suddenly he’s plunging deeper, pushing his tongue in and lapping at every inch of her. His head is growing dizzy and he grabs at her knees to steady himself, and it is then that she finally moans in earnest, _finally_ begins to truly writhe beneath him, pressing her hips flush against his face. Simon knows if he isn’t careful he’ll release here and now, but that would be no help to her.

He paces himself, kissing her insides for a minute more before pulling back. He stands, deaf to the crunch of glass under his feet, blind to the blood on her knees now matching her own, yet finally _seeing_ Charlotte for the first time. It is like witnessing a new colour. The yellows and reds spring from her hair, falling into her face and hiding the new colours in her eyes just so. Every inch of her skin is glowing and surging with a blush, and he doesn’t know when he’d pulled her coat open but he cannot tear his eyes away from her heaving chest.

He knows now that she belongs to him. This woman—who formerly he could hardly speak to without spurning her anger, could not touch without receiving a confused glance—is now laying open and inviting before him.

His hands palpitate, barely able to undo the belt holding him in.

She shakes as he presses into her, and he whispers into her ear how good she is, how _saintly_, one hand clenched into her side as the other continues rubbing her. Once he’s pressed to the hilt in her, her walls flutter around him, a word repeatedly and frantically falling from her lips, and Simon can’t help but remark on how perfectly she fits around him. Her hands finally animate, grabbing at his shoulders, at his chest, pushing against him as he begins to move inside her.

He sees white whenever he is fully sheathed, bright lights glittering around him, something holy finally reaching him through the nightmare. Simon chases that feeling, moaning against her mouth, in her hair, gasping out her name as he hopes she is gasping out his.

“…stop, _stop_, stop…”

When he finally comes, his vision is awash in that white light, and finally he sees the eyes looking into him, all dancing around his vision but centred on his frame, and he knows he has finally earned forgiveness as he looks upon his God.

* * *

Lottie’s eyes feel like they’re glued closed. She groans, lifting a hand to her pounding head. She can _hear_ her eyes when they’re finally pried open. Never a good sign. Nor is the unfamiliar (and _very_ dark) lounge room that greets her.

Her brain is already doing the mental math—migraine, mouth tastes like shit, not sure where the _hell_ she is—when her body catches up first, sitting up with a start as her eyes snap open wide.

She remembers being tossed a goddamn sack by one of those monsters, remembers escaping, and seeing… something. Something that the mere thought of leeches all warmth from her body.

It’s only then that she notices Simon on the other side of the room. He is standing by the window, rooted to the spot like he hasn’t moved in hours. His eyes are transfixed on something outside, high above them. The moon? She tried to ask what the hell is wrong with him, but something squeezes her chest, and she erupts into coughs. Simon is at her side in an instant, a hand braced against her back to hold her up as her body gives out. Once it’s out of her system, Charlotte finally speaks, trying to ignore the way his eyes stare into her.

“Where the fuck are we?”

Normally he’d chastise her language. Derail the entire conversation because of one colourful word. Instead, he silently wraps her in a hug, his arms tight around her shoulders, and Charlotte’s skin crawls at the unusual gesture.

Still, she’s too tired to fight him right now. Especially when he’s the only source of warmth in the room.


End file.
